Disclosures
by jeanie2914
Summary: Just when Peter thought the day couldn't get any worse, it did. And it wasn't always Neal's past that came back to haunt them; this time it was his. Set around the middle of the first season.
1. Chapter 1

_In spite of the timing, this is not a Christmas story. It was, however, an exercise in self-discipline because I swore to myself I wouldn't post the first chapter until the final one was written. So my present to myself was to finish it before Christmas, and I have. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. I wish each of you a very Merry Christmas and and Exceptionally Happy New Year._

 _For those who haven't read my stories before, please know I generally write_ _hurt/comfort. That's what I like to read and what I like to write. My Neal is more open; my Peter is more thoughtful. So if that's not your thing, then my stories may not be for you._

 _As stated numerous times, I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility._

 **Chapter One**

In a mix of rage and desperation, Peter spun, closing the short distance between them so quickly that when the shot was fired the sound was muffled by their bodies. He felt the recoil as well as a searing pain along his right side but it didn't stop him. He wrapped one arm around the man, driving him back into the wall as he tried to pry the gun from his hand or at least shift its direction before another shot could be fired.

He should have done this sooner, in the parking deck when he'd first been confronted but he hadn't. Instead, he'd delayed, wasting precious time trying to reason with the man. It didn't take long to see there was no use, the man was bent on revenge and nothing he could say was going to change that. Realizing the man intended to kill him, Peter had been about to make a move when Neal stepped out of the stairwell and into the middle of a situation he knew nothing about.

When the man had accosted him moments earlier, Peter hadn't known what it was about either but he'd since been educated.

"Peter Burke. I've been waiting for you." The voice had sounded from behind him and he'd turned as a heavyset man about his age stepped out from beside the stairwell. He didn't recognize him but he recognized the weapon leveled at his chest. A Glock 21.

Peter had just gone through four hours of budget meetings. If he'd thought his day couldn't get any worse, he'd been mistaken.

"It's Agent Burke," Peter corrected sternly, "and you need to think very carefully about what you are doing."

The man didn't waver at his warning. Instead, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly; his eyes flashed with pride.

"Oh, I have thought about it, Agent Burke," he replied. "In fact, I've thought about nothing else since you killed my brother."

Contrary to popular belief, agents didn't go around killing people on a daily basis. Many got through entire careers without ever having to fire a shot. He personally hadn't been that lucky, but still, he hadn't fired his service weapon in the line of duty in almost a year. And even then...

He stopped short. The man had died. Not from the bullet Peter had sent through his shoulder, but from complications that later developed. Despite assurances from both the Medical Examiner and Agent Hughes, Peter had felt a sense of responsibility for the man's death. His name had been Victor Reich.

He could see the similarities between him and the man now standing in front of him; their coloring, the shape of their mouth and noses. Victor had been younger, his eyes were more desperate, more frightened. This man's eyes were hard and angry, but the resemblance between the two was undeniable.

It had been a joint operation with the NYPD Organized Crime Division on an illegal gambling operation in East Harlem. After three months of investigation, Peter and his counterparts had moved in to make the arrests. One of the suspects, Reich, had drawn a weapon. Peter had fired first, sending a round through his right shoulder. The others had been taken without incident and Reich had been transported to the hospital.

Peter had followed proper procedures, surrendering his weapon and meeting with the agent's of the Inspector Division immediately after the incident. In less than twenty-four hours, the shoot was deemed justified, Peter's weapon was returned and he was cleared for active duty.

Reich had undergone surgery on his shoulder that afternoon and was expected to make a full recovery but three days later, he was dead. There had been a preexisting condition, Agent Hughes had explained at the time, some kind of heart problem that had caused a stroke. The official cause of death was an Ischemic stroke which, according to the ME's report, could have occurred at any time, with or without the man's injuries. His death had not been considered a result of Peter's actions and therefore, had not been categorized as such.

He had not used deadly force, Hughes had reminded him. The man's death, unfortunate as it was, was not his fault nor responsibility. Peter had struggled with that and so, apparently, had the man's brother.

"I'm sorry about what happened to Victor," Peter said truthfully. "I really am but I didn't kill him. He had a heart problem; that is what killed him."

"After you shot him," the man snapped, making the same cause-and-effect connection Peter had made himself at the time. "You're the reason he's dead and I'm here to make you pay for it."

The man's expression left little doubt as to how he planned to do that. He'd come to kill, to take a life for a life, and if Peter wanted to survive, he needed to act quickly. But just at that moment, the door to the stairs swung open; it was Neal.

"Peter," he said, stepping from the stairwell, "I'm glad I caught you. I-" he stopped, frowning at the look on Peter's face. "What's-"

His inquiry was abruptly cut off when Reich's thick arm closed around his neck, jerking him back sharply and shoving the gun that had been trained on Peter into his rib cage. Neal grunted, eyes widening in alarm, his hands instinctively grasping the arm encircling his neck.

"Stop it," Reich growled into Neal's ear, increasing the pressure around his neck until, unable to breathe, Neal ceased his struggle and dropped his hands in submission. "That's better," the man said. He didn't relinquish his grip but he loosened it enough for Neal to get a breath.

"Take out your gun, Burke." He'd kept his eyes locked on Peter's the entire time. "Nice and slow."

Neal's arrival significantly reduced Peter's options. He'd been about to take a gamble and charge Reich but he couldn't risk that now. Now there was more than his life at stake; there was Neal's.

"Okay," Peter replied calmly, his eyes moving from Reich's face to Neal's, "just relax." His words were as much for Neal as for Reich. He removed his weapon from his shoulder holster and when it was clear, Reich nodded at the trash receptacle near the door Neal had just exited. "In there."

Neal's head shook slightly, his eyes urging Peter not to comply but with Reich's gun pressed into Neal's side, Peter had no choice but to do as he was told. Neal grimaced as the gun clanged in the bottom of the almost empty can.

"Your back up, too," the man continued. "I know you have one. Don't make me come find it."

Still keeping his eyes on Reich, Peter stooped and retrieved the Smith and Wesson from his ankle holster. Another nod in the direction of the trash can told Peter what was expected. Again, Peter did as he was bidden, dropping the smaller weapon into the can with its partner.

Reich's arm tightened again around Neal's throat. "Yours too, pretty boy."

Neal shook his head as best he could given the choke hold Reich had him in. "I don't have one," he whispered. "I'm not an agent."

Reich simultaneously dug the gun barrel into Neal's side and squeezed his throat harder. "Bullshit."

"He's telling you the truth," Peter said quickly, his voice rising as the man again cut off Neal's oxygen supply. "He's just a CI; he has nothing to do with this."

"So you're just a snitch." Reich's tone was one of disgust but he loosened his grip and again Neal coughed, sputtered and gasp for air. "Phones, too. In the can. Both of you." Peter and Neal obliged, dropping their respective phones into the can. "Now, move." Reich indicated the direction with a quick nod of the head. "To your car, Burke. We're going for a ride."

Being kidnapped wasn't ideal but at least it bought them some time. Peter had suspected the man had more planned for him than just a bullet or he'd have shot him already. Reich seemed to be the type that liked to boast, to gloat. He'd been planning this a long time and would want to take his time and enjoy it.

Still, whatever his plan was, Neal hadn't been part of it and Reich could have chosen to shoot him on the spot.

So, grateful for that in spite of his misgivings about leaving the garage, Peter moved across the structure.

Reich stopped at his Taurus. "You drive."

After unlocking the doors, Peter got in behind the wheel. Reich forced Neal into the back seat, then took his position in the center of the seat, with a clear view of Peter. Moments later, they were out of the garage and moving down the street. It had felt like hours since he'd left the office but the dashboard clock indicated it had only been seven minutes.

As long as he was driving, Reich wasn't likely to shoot him but Neal was a different story. The man's forearm was no longer wrapped around Neal's neck but the gun was still pressed into his side. Peter could tell because each time Neal tried to engage the man, his words ended in a grunt of pain as the muzzle was jammed into his ribs.

When they crossed the Manhattan Bridge into Brooklyn, a new worry was added to the growing list. What would happen when they moved out of Neal's two-mile radius?

The good thing about that was the authorities would be immediately notified, their location would be known and Federal Agents and law enforcement would be dispatched. Response time was less than ten minutes.

The bad thing was that ten minutes was more than enough time for Reich to kill them both, dump their bodies, and make his escape.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

The tension grew as they neared Neal's federally imposed boundary but thankfully they didn't cross it. Exiting at Jay Street, they drove north into Vinegar Hill. It wasn't the best of areas, it had one of the highest violent crime rates in the city, but it was just inside Neal's radius.

One disaster averted, they moved on to the next.

They turned right on Front Street, then a block and a half later, left on Gold. Two quick turns later, Peter pulled into an enclosed lot of box trucks that, like the neighborhood, had seen better days. At Reich's direction, Peter pulled in between two of them, effectively hiding the Taurus from sight, and switched off the engine.

He exited the car and Reich and Neal did the same. Overgrown trees from the adjoining lot hid both them and the car from view of any of the neighboring buildings. Peter feared they were destined for the back of one of the trucks, but instead Reich, once more digging the barrel of the gun into Neal's side to provide motivation, ordered them through an opening in the fence. Coming out on the other side, Peter saw their situation hadn't improved; the adjacent property was as equally run down and deserted as the one they'd left.

"Inside," Reich growled, nodding at the rear entrance of the dilapidated building that occupied the lot. "Now," he added at Peter's hesitation.

"You know the bullets come out, right?" Neal snapped as the man punctuated his order in the standard way. "If you're going to shoot me, shoot me but stop jabbing that thing into my ribs."

To be so smart, sometimes Neal could be stupid and this was one of those times. Instead of the barrel, Reich used the butt, landing a blow to Neal's ribcage so vicious it was sure to have cracked, if not broken, several ribs. Neal doubled over, yelping in pain but Reich gripped his shoulder and forced him upright.

"How's _that,_ smartass?" Neal, arm pressed to his side and face stamped with pain, said nothing. Once more using the gun to gesture toward the building, Reich again told Peter to move.

Peter crossed the patch of loose sand and weeds to the back door. The padlock that had once secured it had been cut and now lay at the foot of the door. Stepping across a broken step, Peter pushed the door open and entered a wide hall. Still held firmly by Reich, Neal stumbled up the steps and into the house. Once inside, Reich relinquished his hold, shoved Neal towards Peter and pulled the door closed.

"Down the hall," he ordered. "Second door on the right."

Peter glanced sideways at Neal. The hallway they traveled, with its refuse and peeling wallpaper, was in shadows but he could see the sheen of sweat on Neal's face.

"You okay?"

"Been better," Neal replied, his voice low. "Who the hell is this guy, Peter, and what does he want with us?"

"He doesn't want us, Neal, he wants _me._ "

Arriving at the indicated door, Peter and Neal stepped in but stopped just inside the threshold. Unlike the hallway which had been littered with trash, this room had been swept clean. There was a roll of thick, clear plastic sheeting, a length of rope and a pair of heavy shears. A large piece of the sheeting had already been cut free and now covered the larger part of the floor. Reich had said he'd been thinking about this, planning for this, and Peter knew it was true. His blood turned cold, realizing the sheet of plastic had been put there for him. Or at least, for his body.

Now, it was going to hold two.

"Well this is not good," Neal remarked quietly. He too had deduced the purpose of the room and the heavy plastic.

Behind them, Reich's words validated their fears.

"Might be a little crowded but I don't think either of you will be complaining." This time, Peter felt the gun barrel between his shoulder blades. "Go on," the man urged, pressing firmly. "Over there."

"Sorry I got you into this, Neal," Peter said as the plastic crinkled under their feet. With the weapon now trained on him instead of Neal, if he was going to make a move now was the time.

"You know," Reich told them as they reached the center of the room. "I'd planned to let you die slow, Burke, just like Victor, but I think I've changed my mind." The pressure of the gun barrel disappeared and before Peter could do anything a shot rang out; at his side, Neal stumbled forward.

"Instead," Reich continued as Neal dropped to his knees, "you can just watch your _snitch_ die slow." The bullet had penetrated Neal's shoulder. "Then you can die _fast_."

Peter had done everything the man had said, hoping for an opportunity to secure their escape without getting Neal shot but he'd been shot anyway. Peter knew that a gunshot to any part of the body could be fatal without immediate medical attention. It wasn't the bullet that killed; it was the blood loss. Depending on the bullet's course through the body, it could take minutes or even hours for a person to bleed out. Peter had no intention of sitting by and watching that happen.

With a guttural cry, he spun, slamming into Reich. Another shot rang out, sending white-hot pain through his side but he was not deterred. He drove the man across the room, slamming him into the wall as the third shot sounded. Again Peter felt the recoil but not the pain as the bullet found another target. The man in his grasp stiffened, then fell forward, causing Peter to tumble back onto the plastic, the man's now motionless body on top of his. Peter's heart was pounding furiously both from exertion and panic and he could feel warm, sticky blood pouring from the man's chest and soaking his own shirt. Reich had at least thirty pounds on him and now, pinned beneath him, Peter fought to clear his head and catch his breath.

 _"Peter."_

Neal's voice was weak but it gave Peter new strength. Reminded of the direness of their situation, he shoved the man aside and sat up. Out of habit, he secured the weapon, but there was no danger of further violence from Reich. Blood was already pooling on the clear plastic beneath him as his dull, lifeless eyes stared at the cracked ceiling above them.

Peter quickly patted the dead man's pockets, hoping to find a phone but there wasn't one. He looked up to see Neal, sickly pale and sweating, peering at him with wide eyes. The bullet had entered his shoulder blade and had gone through and through. Blood oozed from beneath the hand Neal had pressed to his shoulder. Reich no longer presented a threat to Neal but shock and blood loss did.

"It's okay," Peter assured him, crawling quickly to where he was sitting. "You're gonna be fine. Just let me take a look."

Pulling Neal's hand away from his shoulder, Peter felt a wave of nausea at the sight of the wound. Although it was bleeding steadily, it wasn't gushing with each heartbeat; somehow the bullet had missed the subclavian vein. He leaned Neal forward slightly, finding the smaller, more symmetrical entrance wound on his back. It, too, was bleeding but not as heavy as the exit wound.

He could feel Neal, drenched in sweat, trembling in his grasp. He feared shock was already beginning to set in.

"Bleeding," Neal mumbled breathlessly, his voice weak in Peter's ears. "How bad...?"

Having completed his cursory survey of the wound, Peter righted Neal and met his eyes.

"You're gonna be fine, Neal," he reiterated firmly. It was important to keep him calm. "Just keep pressure on it," He took Neal's hand in his, then pressed it to the wound, "and I'll go get help."

"Not me," Neal corrected desperately, his eyes fearful. "You." His eyes dropped to Peter's midsection. "You're hurt, Peter."

Peter glanced down, seeing the large stain on his shirt front. "That's Reich's blood, Neal, not mine." Neal started to protest, but Peter continued. "You just sit tight, and I'll be right back."

The minute he stood, his lightheartedness increased drastically and the room began to spin. Suddenly aware of pain that had somehow escaped his attention, Peter pressed his hand to his side. Feeling warm stickiness, he looked down in surprise. Neal was right. It wasn't just Reich's blood that covered him; he was losing his own too.

Weakness swept over him and he sank to the floor. Then, unable to hold himself upright, he tumbled to his side.

" _Peter!"_ Neal's voice rang out and seconds later, his pale, worried face appeared at his side.

Out of breath and grunting in his own discomfort, Neal fumbled at Peter's jacket, pulling it aside to find the source of bleeding. Just like Peter himself had done moments before, Neal pulled Peter's hand away from the wound. There was a quick intake of breath.

"Damn," Neal winced softly, quickly reapplying pressure before looking at Peter in alarm. "This looks bad, Peter."

It was bad; Peter could tell. He was already drained, was starting to feel cold and the room was growing darker. He wasn't going for help; he wasn't going _anywhere_. Just like Reich had planned, he was going to die in this room.

But maybe Neal didn't have to. He looked like hell but was conscious and at least somewhat mobile. He might be able to get outside, to get help.

He grabbed Neal's forearm. "Listen, Neal," he began desperately. "You have to get out, get to the street...try to flag someone down..."

Neal was shaking his head. "I think Reich hit an artery, Peter," he said, still keeping the pressure on Peter's side. "If I leave you, you'll bleed to death."

"But if you don't," Peter told him, his gaze shifting to Neal's now freely bleeding shoulder, "we _both_ will. Please Neal," he begged, meeting his eyes again. "You _have_ to try, you have to tell El-" He stopped, choking up as his eyes filling with tears.

"Stop talking like that!" Neal cut in sharply. Peter could hear a hint of panic in his voice. "You're _not_ dying, Peter, you just have to _hang_ on."

"Nobody's coming, Neal," Peter whispered, feeling what little strength he had left waning. "No one knows we're here." Neal's face, just inches from his own, blurred; he was going to pass out. "You have to go...you have to try..."

He didn't know he'd closed his eyes until Neal demanded him open them.

"That's it," Neal encouraged, his face just inches away. "You _have_ to stay _awake_ , Peter."

Peter knew he needed to but he also knew he wasn't going to; he was too tired, too weak.

He was sorry he'd gotten Neal into this, sorry he'd gotten him shot, sorry he hadn't been able to save them.

Sorry he was leaving Elizabeth.

" _Sorry, Neal..._."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"Peter, open your eyes!"

Neal knew his voice was edged with panic but there was a good reason; he _was_ panicked. " _Peter!_ "

This time in spite of his insistence, Peter's eyes remained closed. His face was ashen, his breathing shallow and rapid. Neal had been in tough spots before, granted nothing of this magnitude, and knew panic could be as much an enemy as the flesh and blood kind. It either paralyzed a person and kept them from acting or caused them to act recklessly without considering the consequences. Either one was a mistake, often exacerbating an already difficult situation. With him, historically, it had been the latter rather than the former. He tended to rush ahead, to leap before looking, which oft times took him out of the frying pan and into the proverbial fire.

With everything that had happened-being kidnapped at gunpoint, taken to a deserted building and shot, and now Peter shot and unresponsive-Neal felt he had every right to a moment or two of panic. But he also knew Peter didn't have a moment or two to spare.

If he wanted Peter to live, he had to stay calm and think of a way to save him.

He was trying to control the bleeding by keeping pressure on the wound but that was only a stop-gap measure. Though it was at a slower rate, he too was losing blood. He was already feeling lightheaded and weak; he wasn't sure if his nausea was from actual blood loss or just from the sight of so much of it. It was only a matter of time until he, like Peter, lost consciousness. Peter had told him to go for help, but even if he managed to get outside without passing out, which he doubted, and found someone to call for help, which seemed equally unlikely, it would still be too late for Peter.

Peter was right; waiting for help wasn't an option but _going_ for help wasn't one either.

Neal searched the room in desperation, looking for anything that might prove helpful. His eyes came to rest on the dead man with staring eyes only a few feet away.

A cell phone; that was the answer.

Even though he had an aversion to dead bodies, he released his hold on Peter and scurried as quickly as he could across the plastic to where the man lay. The blood surrounding him had begun to congeal and was sticky and thick beneath Neal's hand and knees. With a grimace of disgust, Neal rifled through the man's pockets.

There was no phone.

What kind of person didn't carry a phone?

The psychotic killer kind apparently.

Drained of both energy and hope, Neal started back to Peter. There was a puddle of blood beginning to creep out from beneath Peter's motionless body and Neal's hand was slipping in the trail of his own blood he'd left across the floor. Time was running out and he had no plan. He could slow Peter's bleeding but that was only a temporary thing. It might buy minutes but not the hours it would take before anyone came looking. Right now, no one even knew they were missing. They hadn't been gone long enough to be missed and he hadn't left his radius. No one would-

He stopped; he was wearing a _tracking device._

He could summon three levels of law enforcement, Federal, State and Local, to this godforsaken building in a matter of minutes. All he had to do was cut his anklet. And fortunately, the dead man had left behind a tool that would do the trick. The irony that something he hated so badly, something that made him feel trapped and controlled, now represented his only ray of hope to him did not escape him.

"Hang on, Peter," Neal gasped, changing his course and heading for the pair of shears. "Just a little longer."

Reaching his destination, Neal rotated himself into a sitting position and picked up the shears. Heart pounding and breathing heavily, he wiped the sweat stinging his eyes with his sleeve and then, bracing one side of the handle against his leg, he cut through the anklet. He picked it up and with sheer will-power, managed to press the severed ends together, reconnecting the signal and creating a series of flashes on the anklet. He'd sent a message like this before but Peter had been the one at the other end. This time, he wasn't sure who it would be. Jones maybe, possibly Agent Hughes. Hopefully, one of them would pick up on it and understand.

But if not, it didn't matter. Whether an emergency medical unit or a SWAT team, Neal knew help was on the way.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter's mind was sluggish, slow to understand or interpret the sensations around him. First came confusion, and then great discomfort. Someone was pulling at him, sending waves of pain through his torso with each tug. There was also an odd, crinkling sound and grunts of exertion behind him. An unpleasant smell filled his nostrils.

With effort, he opened his eyes. There was an empty light socket hanging, wires exposed, in the middle of a cracked, stained ceiling above him. There was another tug, another grunt, another wave of pain.

A groan escaped his lips.

"Sorry, Peter."

It was Neal behind him; Neal moving him a few, painful inches at a time, across the floor. "I need to... get you to..." Another tug, another grunt. "where I can keep...pressure on the wound. Almost...there."

Neal was pulling him by the collar of his coat and after one last tug, Peter felt him release his hold and sink to the floor behind him. He couldn't see Neal but could hear his labored breathing as he moved around behind him, situating himself so one leg extended at Peter's side. A moment later, Neal's arm reached around him and, with another grunt, pulled him back to rest against his heaving chest.

Still confused and now partially upright, Peter took in his surroundings. The crinkling sound he'd been hearing was plastic that covered the floor of the room. There was blood, too. Lots of it, and...

 _...a body._

The sight of Reich's body cleared the fog in Peter's mind and the events of the day returned in startling clarity.

Reich had shot Neal. Peter had charged him and in the ensuing fight, both he and Reich had taken a bullet themselves. Reich's had gone through the heart; Peter's had gone through the torso. There was blood around Reich's body but the rest of it, pooled and smeared across the floor in copious amounts, had to belong to him and Neal.

A sudden change in Neal's position sent intense pain through Peter's core. He stiffened, crying out.

" _Sorry,_ " Neal gasped, still out of breath. "I know...it...hurts."

Peter realized it hadn't been an accident; it had been a purposeful move. With just a shift in their positions, Neal's thigh was now pressed painfully against his side.

It took a moment but the pain lessened, became less sharp. Peter, too drained to do otherwise, again rested against Neal's rapidly rising and falling chest. In spite of the pain-induced sweat running down his face, he felt cold; he was starting to tremble. He wouldn't be conscious much longer and from the sound of it, neither would Neal.

But Neal knew that; that was why he'd situated them so that even if he passed out, his thigh would still remain firmly pressed against Peter's side. It was a valiant effort but a pointless one. Peter knew it might extend his life by a few minutes but all the work it had taken had undoubtedly shortened Neal's.

No one was coming; no one was even looking. He'd told Neal that, told him to try to save himself but he hadn't listened. Instead, he'd stayed and by doing so, wasted any chance he'd had for survival.

"Dammit, Neal," he said weakly. "For once, couldn't you just do what I _tell_ you?"

"I guess not." Neal's voice was faint.

"I told you to _go."_

"And I told you I wasn't leaving you."

"Then we're both gonna die here," Peter said brokenly. He'd never see El again, never smell her fragrance in his nostrils, never hold her in his arms. The only pain worse than that was knowing what he was about to put her through. Those first few hours, however horrible, would be tempered with hope but as time passed, it would fade. Then, at some point, there would come a knock at the door. It would probably be Reese and when she saw him, she would know all hope was gone. "God," he breathed as despair washed over him. "El..."

"We are not dying here, Peter." Neal's voice shook with emotion. "You just have to hang on." Peter felt the grip around his chest tighten. "Help _is_ coming."

Neal's desperate attempt at reassurance was touching and as much as Peter hated he was here, a part of him was glad he was. The warmth of Neal's body behind him, the pressure of his leg against his side and his arm around his chest kept the pressing chill of death at bay and brought Peter a measure of comfort. At least he wasn't _alone_.

"I'm sorry I got you into this, Neal."

"You can make it up to me later." Neal refused to acknowledge the finality of their situation, or at least, acknowledge it to _him._ "Maybe increase my radius..." Neal's voice grew fainter, "or up my monthly allowance..I'd be good with that, too."

The room was growing dimmer and Peter knew this time, when he lost consciousness, he wouldn't wake again. Knowing that, Peter raised his hand and gripped Neal's forearm. Right or wrong, Neal had chosen to stay with him, to die with him if necessary. If he couldn't give him words of reassurance, at least he could give words of appreciation.

"Thanks for not leaving me, Neal," Peter whispered. "You're a good man." It was true and Neal needed to know it. Everything was always so complicated between them. There were so many things he should have said but because of their respective roles, not to mention respective egos, never had. "You're the best friend I've ever had."

Again Neal's grip around him tightened but only slightly. "I feel the same about you." Though Neal was speaking just inches from his ear, Peter could barely make out the words. "You're the only person... in my life... I've ever been able to count on. The only person I could _trust_." Peter had heard that before; it had moved him then and did so again. "I didn't know how much I needed that until I found you."

But he'd never heard _that._ He realized Neal's halting speech wasn't just from fatigue and blood loss; it was from emotion as well. Neal might have been trying to hold out some hope for rescue but this admission, this level of openness, told Peter he too knew their time was running out. It was sad that it was only now, with their lives ending, that either one of them could admit how much the other meant to them. He and Neal were a lot alike; they'd take a bullet for each other but God forbid they give an actual verbal affirmation.

Profoundly touched by Neal's actions as well as his words, it took Peter a minute to find his voice.

"Technically, I found _you_." If they were going to die together, they weren't going to do it all choked up.

"Only 'cause I _let_ you." Peter smiled at Neal's delayed response. This was much better.

"You did _not,"_ He said, resting his head against Neal's chest. He felt oddly at peace. "I caught you fair and square."

"I practically turned myself in," Neal mumbled after a moment.

Getting the last word with Neal was never easy, but Peter knew this time, his last word truly would be that: his last words.

He closed his eyes, squeezed Neal's hand, and chose them wisely.

"Well, I'm glad you did, Neal, because it's been a privilege to know you."

If he had to leave Neal with one thought, one truth in the end, that was it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Help was coming. Neal knew that. He wasn't sure what form it would take, and he didn't care. It just needed to _hurry._

He and Mozzie had calculated out probable response times from several locations within his radius. In most places, it was less than seven minutes. Not a lot of time when you were trying to escape federal custody but a whole lot of time when someone was bleeding to death in your arms.

"I'm sorry I got you into this, Neal," Peter mumbled, still clinging to consciousness. Each time he felt Peter start to drift away, he'd coaxed him back, but Neal could tell he wasn't going to be able to keep that up much longer.

"You can make it up to me later," Neal answered. "Maybe increase my radius..." He blinked, trying to clear his vision. Peter wasn't the only one about to pass out, "or up my monthly allowance..." Never had the authorities taken so long to close in on his location. "I'd be good with that, too."

He didn't know he'd closed his eyes until he felt Peter squeeze his arm.

"Thanks for not leaving me, Neal," Peter's voice was low. "You're a good man," Neal felt a lump rise in his throat "and the best friend I've ever had."

These were things he'd wanted for a long time, for Peter to think of him as a good man instead of as a convicted criminal; as a friend and not just asset. But these were things, even if Peter thought, he'd never say. Peter, just like him, wasn't big on expressions of sentiment. Peter had lost a lot of blood, and God only knew what kind of internal injuries he'd sustained. This was his _goodbye_.

Neal didn't want to believe it could end here, like this, but he knew there was a chance it would do just that. For a person who'd learned not to need anyone or get attached, sometimes it scared him how important Peter had become to him. He was the only constant he'd ever had in his life. Keeping that to himself had been part pride and part self-defense, but if this was indeed the end, then he wanted Peter to know the truth.

"I feel the same about you," he admitted, pulling Peter closer. "You're the only person in my life..." He stopped, swallowing hard before continuing, "I've ever been able to count on. The only person I could _trust_." He paused again. "I didn't know how much I needed that until I found you."

In the silence that followed, Neal was afraid he'd waited too long, that Peter had already drifted away.

But he hadn't. "Technically, I found _you_."

Peter's voice was weak, but there was no mistaking its teasing tone. Surprised, it took Neal a moment to respond.

"Only 'cause I _let_ you."

Again there was a lag before Peter responded. "You did _not,"_ he mumbled. _"_ I caught you fair and square."

Neal closed his eyes, finding solace in their quibbling. "I practically turned myself in."

Neal was drifting himself when he felt slight pressure on his hand.

"Well, I'm glad you did, Neal," Peter's voice was faint, "because it's been a privilege to know you."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Voices pierced the darkness; distant and indistinct. Then they came closer. Neal felt fingers against his neck.

"Neal." The voice not only was clear, but it was also familiar. "Can you hear me? _Neal._ "

He opened his eyes. Clinton's face swam in front of him. "It's okay, Neal," he said. "You can let him go."

He could see the face and hear the words but his mind was sluggish in understanding. "It's okay Neal," Jones said again. "Let him go."

"We're clear," another familiar voice rang out. "Get that medical team in here!"

Neal moved his gaze from Clinton's face upwards to Diana's. His team was here. Behind her, the room was swarming with people. Uniformed officers, men in black gear. He could hear the rumble of their voices, the crinkling of the plastic sheeting beneath many feet.

"What the hell _happened_ , Neal?" Diana barked as she holstered her weapon. Her voice was harsh but not her eyes. She knelt beside Jones at his side. Her eyes flickered over him before settling on Peter. Her frown deepened. "How bad?"

Neal was still trying to process an answer to the first question and didn't know the answer to the second; Peter wasn't conscious, he hadn't stirred at all. They had shifted and the weight of Peter's body had made Neal's entire leg numb. Even though his arm was still wrapped around Peter's chest, he couldn't tell if he was even breathing.

"I don't know," Jones replied, answering the question Neal thought had been meant for him. "Neal's hit in the shoulder and it looks like Peter took a round in the side. His pulse is weak but its there."

Peter was alive, was still hanging on. Relieved his team had found them, that help had arrived, Neal gave into the weakness and closed his eyes.

"They've lost a lot of blood," Jones continued, "We need to.. _Hey_ ," the tone sharpened, prompting Neal to open eyes. "Stay with us, Neal."

There was a real concern on Jones' face; Diana's as well. Neal wanted to thank them, for coming and for caring, but his tongue, like his eyelids, were heavy and uncooperative.

"Caffrey!" This time it was Diana's voice that cut through the darkness. There was a firm tap on his cheek. "Eyes _open,_ Neal." He again managed to comply but it was more difficult and this time their faces refused to come into clear focus.

"What've we got?"

This was a voice Neal didn't recognize. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. White shirt, blue slacks...

"Gunshot wounds," Diana answered as both she and Jones surrendered their spots to the new arrivals. "Neal's to the shoulder, Peter's to the abdomen."

"We're here to help, Neal," the man said. Neal tried to make his eyes focus on his face. "Do you understand?" He did understand. "You can let him go."

He hadn't realized he still had a tight grip around Peter's chest until the man placed a hand on his. Again, even though he understood the request, his response was sluggish.

"You can let him go," the man said again, gently pulling his hand away from Peter. "It's okay."

Neal nodded numbly, releasing his grip. A moment later, Peter was moved and placed on the floor a few feet away. Neal only got a glimpse of him before his view was blocked by medical personnel but it was enough to cause his heart to drop. Covered in blood, motionless, and sickeningly pale, Peter looked like he was already dead.

"Peter..." he managed to mumble, watching the flurry of activity around Peter's prone form. "How bad is-"

"They're gonna take good care of him, Neal, don't you worry." The medic gave his partner a nod and together they moved Neal away from the wall and lowered him to the floor. The dull pain in his shoulder sharpened and without Peter's body for warmth, he began to tremble.

"Can you tell us what happened, Neal?" One of the men asked, unbuttoning Neal's shirt as his partner cut both his jacket and shirt sleeve from wrist to shoulder, then across to his collar in a quick, well-practiced move.

"He bought us here," Neal's voice was unsteady as he glanced across to where he knew Reich's body lay. "He shot me and then..." he paused, trying to reconstruct the event in his mind, "...he and Peter..." There had been a shot; Peter had driven the man into the wall. "...they fought. Peter was hurt...he was bleeding..." There had been so much blood. Were they still working on Peter? Had they stopped? Was he still _alive?_ "Please," he implored, grasping the man's arm as panic caused his chest to constrict. "I need...to know... how Peter is."

"They're taking care of him, Neal," the man assured him once more, disengaging his hand gently. "I promise; try to stay calm."

"I've got bone fragments," the medic examining his shoulder informed. "This is an _exit_ wound. Raise him up." Neal was pulled forward, the movement sending another wave of pain through him. "Yeah," the medic continued grimly, "here it is. Hand me the gauze."

Neal didn't know what the man was doing but it hurt; he grunted as pressure was applied to his already throbbing shoulder. When he was again lowered to the floor, similar attention was given to the exit wound. The process took longer, the waves of pain drowning out whatever the men were saying as they worked. The pain grew steadily, finally tearing a hoarse cry from his lips.

Then, thankfully, it was over.

Weak and trembling more than before, Neal found it increasingly difficult to breathe. There was more snipping of the shears, this time from the wrist to the shoulder of his other sleeve. A moment later, a blood pressure cuff squeezed his arm. The room started to spin; he felt like he was going to be sick.

"90 over 60. Pulse is rapid and thready." The voice sounded strangely muffled; the edges of Neal's vision began to darken. It was as if he were looking through a tunnel. "We need to get his pressure up. Start the O2 and let's get him out of here." The tunnel narrowed. "We'll get a line in once we're in the unit."

A mask was placed over his face. His field of vision grew smaller, to a pinpoint, then disappeared, leaving him in darkness.

"Stay with us now," a voice coaxed. Neal could feel himself being lifted, moved. A heavy blanket was spread across him. "Come on, Neal," the voice said again. "Stay with us."

But he couldn't. Now that breathing was easier and the blanket was bringing warmth to his chilled body, Neal was unable to keep himself from drifting away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Peter woke with a start, confused, the brightness of the room temporarily blinding him.

" _Neal_!" A hand on his chest prevented him from rising.

"It's okay, Peter." Elizabeth's voice came through the glare before her face came into focus above him. "Neal's fine, I promise." It was her hand on his chest. "Relax."

This was a hospital, not the abandoned house Reich had taken them to, and Elizabeth was here.

" _El_." He'd thought he'd never see her again. He felt his eyes sting with tears.

"Hey, hon." She took his hand in hers, her smile warming his heart. "You had me so worried."

"Had _myself_ worried," he admitted hoarsely. "What happened?" His throat was dry. "How did I get here?"

"You were shot, Peter," she told him, her smile of greeting fading, "by a man who-"

"Reich," Peter supplied, "the brother of the man I shot in East Harlem last year." That wasn't the part he was confused about. "But how did I _get_ here?"

"You were brought in yesterday afternoon," she replied, again leaving him without an answer. "It was touch and go for hours, Peter, they weren't sure-" Her voice broke, the distress on her face giving him no doubt how terrifying the last few hours had been for her.

"I'm sorry, El." He didn't know what else to say.

She rallied at his contrition. "You have nothing to be sorry for," she stated firmly. "You're going to be okay." she announced. "They were able to repair the damage to your liver but," her fortitude slipped as her eyes filled with tears, "they did have to remove your _spleen_."

He hated to see her upset, to know how traumatized she'd been by what had happened, but given the fact he hadn't expected to be alive at all, a lost spleen didn't seem a big deal. Anyway, did anyone know what a spleen actually _did_? He didn't.

"It's okay, El." It was his turn to offer reassurance. "I'm just glad to be here at all. With a spleen or without one. How about Neal?" She'd said he was fine but he'd feel better once he'd seen that for himself. "Where is he?"

There was the sound of wheels rolling across the hard floor and Neal appeared at his side. His wounded arm was immobilized and he held to his IV pole with his free hand.

"I'm here." He was pale and breathless, had dark circles under his eyes and messy hair but given Peter's last cognitive memory of him, he looked pretty good.

"Neal," Elizabeth scolded. "Remember what Dr. Harrison told you?" There was a hint of impatience in her tone. "You're supposed to stay in bed until-."

"I'm _fine_ , Elizabeth," Neal cut in, still hanging tightly to the pole although he'd reached his destination. "You said so yourself." The look he gave her indicated he'd been eavesdropping on their exchange. "How you feeling, Peter?"

"You're here," Peter observed, glad he'd been able to blink back the tears that had threatened to fall a moment before. "I mean, _here,"_ he clarified. _"_ _In my room."_

"It's my room too," Neal's grin wasn't as bright as usual but it was genuine. "My bed's right over there."

Peter followed his nod. It was true. The room was not designed for two beds and yet, there it was. Confused, he looked at El.

"You were both being difficult," she told him. "You kept asking about each other but wouldn't believe what you were told. Kept demanding to _see for yourselves_."

"I don't remember that," Peter mumbled, feeling his face flush. He didn't remember but it _sounded_ like him. Trust but verify.

"Neither do I," Neal chimed in.

"Really?" Elizabeth challenged, turning a level look on Neal. "You don't remember falling in recovery last night and bleeding all over the floor?"

It was Neal's turn to blush; a bit color crept into his pale face. "Well, yeah," he admitted sheepishly. "I remember _that_."

"He'd just gotten out of surgery," Elizabeth explained, keeping a disapproving eye on Neal. "Reopened his incisions and had to be taken back in a stitched up again. Once the two of you were stabilized, the hospital staff decided to put you in the same room. You were easier to _manage_ that way." She released his hand. "I'm gonna let them know you're awake. Neal," she added sternly, "you better sit down. Dr. Harrison is going to tie you to the bed if you fall again." She bent and gave Peter a quick kiss on the cheek. Her expression softened. "I'll be right back, hon."

"You better do what she says," Peter advised Neal as she left. "You look about ready to drop."

"You're one to talk," Neal mumbled, still clinging to the IV pole for support. "You look pretty bad yourself."

"Yeah, but I'm in a _bed,_ " Peter pointed out. "I can only fall so far."

"I guess that's true," Neal conceded, "but getting up and down _hurts_."

"Then maybe you should just stay _down,_ " Peter offered. He guessed that had been the medical advice as well. Advice Neal had chosen to ignore. "Where were you going, anyway?" He shifted, trying to situate himself better in the bed. "When you fell?"

"To find you," Neal admitted quietly. "I guess I wasn't thinking too clearly." He paused. "I thought they were lying to me."

"About what?" Peter found the Up arrow on the bed and pushed it, raising himself several inches.

"You being alive."

He looked at Neal in surprise. "You thought I was _dead?_ "

Peter remembered the fear he'd felt when he'd seen Neal stagger forward, dropping to his knees. He now realized Neal had experienced that same terror.

"I just needed to see you, that's all, to make sure they were telling me the truth. Like I said," he added, averting his eyes as a touch of color tinted his cheeks. "I wasn't thinking clearly."

Neal was embarrassed by the incident but there was no reason to be. Peter had felt the same way moments before. Elizabeth told him Neal was fine but he wouldn't have been able to relax until he'd seen so himself.

Trust but verify.

"Considering everything you'd been through," Peter offered, "I think its understandable."

"Yeah, I guess so," Neal replied half-heartedly. "How much do you remember?" He asked, meeting Peter's eyes hesitantly. "About what happened?"

He seemed to be testing the waters, fishing for something, but Peter didn't know why or for what.

"Everything up until I fought with Reich," Peter told him. "After that, just bits and pieces."

Peter paused, trying to remember the sequence of those _bits and pieces_. He'd plowed into Reich; the gun had discharged causing Reich to stiffen in his grasp. The man had tumbled forward, pinning Peter beneath him. He'd gotten free, saw that Reich was dead and hurried across the floor to check on Neal. It wasn't until he tried to get to his feet that he realized the blood covering him wasn't all Reich's. He remembered the shock of realizing he'd been shot, that he wasn't going to be able to go for help, and sinking to the floor.

There were other snippets of memory, disconnected and uncertain. Some seemed likely, other's less so. He wasn't sure what had happened and what his mind, starved for oxygen by blood loss, had imagined. But one memory was clear to him; Neal's pale and fearful face above him, refusing to leave him to go for help.

 _"You'll die if I leave you,"_ he'd said.

Peter had told him they'd both die if he didn't but Neal had still refused to go. Peter remembered his despair but also how moved he'd been by Neal's actions. He wasn't sure how, but at some point, he'd been resting with his back against Neal's chest. He remembered Neal's faint voice near his ear, his arm around his chest bringing warmth. He also remembered the comfort he'd felt having Neal there. He'd thought those were their last moments, the end of their journey and it would have been had Neal not changed his mind about leaving him.

Was that what Neal was wondering about? If he remembered that promise?

"You went for help."

"No, I didn't," Neal denied with a shake of the head. "I _called_ for help."

Peter frowned. He remembered searching Reich's body for a phone. There had been none. "How?"

"I cut my anklet."

Again, it wasn't the answer he'd expected but it was brilliant. That was undoubtedly the fastest, most efficient way to alert the authorities and had likely brought help to the scene faster than any 911 call.

"That was smart," Peter remarked, wishing he'd thought of it himself. Neal Caffrey cutting his anklet would trigger an immediate, hard response from everyone from the local LEO's to the Federal Authorities. "How long did it take for the cavalry to arrive?"

The _cavalry_ probably consisted of the NYPD, Federal Marshals, several units of State Police and the FBI.

"I don't know," Neal answered. "I was out by then but according to Mozzie's calculations, seven minutes; eight at most."

" _Mozzie's_ calculations?"

"He has my radius broken down by response time," Neal explained. "You know," his weak eyes twinkled " _Just in case_."

Before Peter could pursue _that_ topic any further, Elizabeth returned. She was accompanied by a white-coat-clad, middle-aged man who introduced himself as Dr. Harrison.

"Up _again,_ I see Mr. Caffrey."

When addressed by the doctor's tone of disapproval, Neal's mischievous expression evaporated. "Just for a minute," he insisted. "I'm on my way back to bed _right now._ "

The speed in which Neal could look completely innocent of any wrongdoing was not lost on Peter; he'd seen it many times. It worked with most people, too, especially the ladies. It just didn't work with _him._

True to his word, Neal began his trek across the floor, pushing the machine in front of him. He was unsteady and seeing it, Elizabeth joined him, wrapped an arm around his waist to lend support as he made his way back to his bed.

"How are you feeling, Agent Burke?" The doctor asked, eyeing the half-empty IV bags hanging at Peter's side. "Any pain?" He checked the port location in his arm before allowing his eyes to settle on Peter's face. "Discomfort?" Surprisingly, the answer was no. "Good," the doctor noted at the shake of Peter's head. "You've been through quite the ordeal." He glanced across to where Neal, with Elizabeth's help, was lowering himself to the bed with a grimace. "Both of you have."

Peter spent the next several minutes learning about the damage Reich's bullet had done and what medical steps had been taken to repair it. Perforated liver, intestinal damage and of course, the unsalvagable spleen. It proved both informative and educational; he even learned the function of the spleen.

"It's part of the body's immune system," the doctor explained as Elizabeth rejoined them. "It filters blood and helps the fight infections. It's not essential for survival, however, without one you will be more prone to infections." Peter could tell Elizabeth had heard this before. She kept constant pressure on his hand, a look of concern stamped on her face. That, the doctor continued, was the reason for the high dosage of antibiotics he was currently receiving intravenously. "It's precautionary," he added. "Infections after a splenectomy usually develop quickly, so it's important to be ahead in case of any complications."

Once he was able to eat, his medications-at present antibiotics and morphine-would be administered orally. He'd continue to receive intravenous fluids until his blood volume reached normal levels. According to Dr. Harrison both he and Neal, whom he again referred to as _Mr. Caffrey,_ in addition to their other injuries, had been suffering from hypovolemia when they'd been brought in the day before.

"You were both fortunate," the doctor stated. "Mr. Caffrey," he looked again at Neal who, as promised, had returned to his bed, " _if_ he follows directions and stays out of trouble," both a struggle for Neal in the best of times, "may be discharged tomorrow. You, on the other hand," his attention returned to Peter, "will be staying with us a bit longer."

"How much longer?" He felt Elizabeth squeeze his hand.

"At least a few days to make sure no problems develop. After that," he went on, "we'll schedule a follow-up and give you a series of vaccinations to help you stay healthy. We can discuss all that later," he concluded. "Do you have any questions for me?"

"When can I go back to work?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," the doctor chuckled. "You're strong and healthy and that's a plus, but its still going to take time for you to heal."

"How _much_ time?" He pressed.

"Four to six weeks, if there are no complications."

"Four to six _weeks_?" Peter burst out. "I can't be-"

"Peter, _please_." Elizabeth again squeezed his hand, the look of distress on her tired face causing him to swallow his protest.

"Sorry, El."

"Four to six weeks for _complete_ recovery," the doctor clarified for him. "You should be able to resume limited activities within a couple weeks but only _limited_ ," he warned sternly. "It's important you follow discharge instructions carefully or four to six weeks can easily turn into _eight to ten. Or worse."_

"He will follow them _to the letter,"_ Elizabeth stated firmly, her eyes daring Peter to disagree. "I will see to it."

She apparently had as much confidence in his following instructions as he had in Neal doing so.

"Well, then," the doctor smiled at the two of them. "It seems you are in good hands then."


	6. Chapter 6

_Thanks to all who have followed and favorited this story, and a special thanks to all who take the time to post a review or send a message. My readers are my Muse. One more chapter to come._

 **Chapter Six**

"He's gone, Neal," Peter said once the doctor had left them. Like a good patient, Neal had lain quietly, eyes closed, pretending to rest while the doctor had consulted with Peter. "You can quit playing opossum."

There was no response; on top of the coverlet, Neal remained motionless.

"He's not playing," Elizabeth remarked, her eyes resting on Neal's still form as well. "He's really asleep."

Peter frowned at Neal's placid repose. "You think so?"

"Yes," she said in a low voice, "in spite of what he says, he is _not_ fine. He has a shattered scapula and a lot of muscle damage." She frowned. "They also said he has several cracked ribs."

Peter's memory of the evening's events was sketchy but he clearly remembered the thud Reich's pistol butt made when it connected with Neal's side. "Yeah, the son of a bitch _hit_ him."

"Well, he needs his rest," she continued wearily, shifting her gaze back to Peter. "He's weak, not to mention exhausted; I bet he didn't sleep more than two hours the entire night."

Which meant she'd slept even less. There was a blanket swung across the arm of the recliner nestled in between the two beds, but he doubted she'd used it. Neal wasn't the only one who was exhausted. "You were here all night?"

She nodded. "Reece called just after six," she told him. "He said you'd been hurt and that he was sending an agent to get me. He wouldn't tell me anything other than you were alive." Her eyes grew stormy. "I was so _scared,_ Peter."

Peter could only imagine what that ride had been like. It was the call every spouse of law enforcement dreaded most. He'd have to remember to thank Reece for looking after Elizabeth, for sending a car and not letting her drive herself.

"I know you were," he acknowledged, squeezing her hand. "But it's okay; _I'm_ okay." He again glanced across at Neal. "We both are."

It truly _was_ a miracle. As he and Neal had huddled together in that horrible room, Reich's body only feet away, he had been certain they were going to die there. But they hadn't; Neal had found a way to save them.

"When did he get a new anklet?" It was there, dark against Neal's pale skin.

"I'm not sure," Elizabeth answered. "He had it on when they brought him in here last night."

The Marshal Service sure hadn't wasted any time in replacing it. Peter understood; it was protocol. But still, it bothered him. What had they said? Did they ask how he was, or show any concern for what he'd been through? Did they thank him for saving the life of a federal agent?

Probably not. They'd likely snapped it on with an air of irritation the moment he'd cleared surgery. Tracking devices weren't cheap; Peter had been informed of that during their budget meeting, and Neal Caffrey went through entirely too many of them.

Peter frowned, recalling the reason Neal had given for his ill-advised departure from the recovery room.

"He said he was looking for me when he fell," he remarked. "That he was afraid people were lying to him and I was dead."

"That's my fault," she ssid with a tone of recrimination. "I should have called June or even Mozzie but I just didn't think..." She shook her head regretfully. "I was so worried about you, we all were, that no one thought about how scared _he_ was. He should have had someone he knew with him, someone he trusted to tell him the truth. But he didn't." Her eyes were dark with distress. "I felt awful when they told me what had happened." Again her eyes traveled to Neal. "That's why I was glad they brought him in here with us."

The thought of Neal upset and alone, not knowing what was going on, tugged at Peter's heart. He was glad he was here, too, regardless of the tight quarters.

"You know he saved my life."

"He said _you_ saved your lives," she informed him. "That if you hadn't fought back that man would have killed you both."

"Well, yeah," Peter admitted halfheartedly, "but if Neal hadn't gotten help, we'd have both died anyway."

"I guess it was a team effort, then," she said with a tired smile. "Diana told me how he sent the message through his anklet."

Peter frowned. " _What_ message?"

" _Agent Down Send Help_ ," she recited, enunciating each word. "He did it with morse code. Diana said he'd sent a message like that before." He had. And he'd been under duress then as well but not to the level he'd been under _this_ time. Peter had been impressed Neal had the presence of mind to cut the anklet but he'd done even more than that, he'd sent an SOS in the process.

"I'm surprised anyone noticed," Peter remarked. "Usually, everyone immediately assumes the worst where Neal is concerned." He didn't miss the look El sent him. "Okay," he conceded, "I know I tend to do that too, but I at least try to keep an open mind."

"Well, fortunately for you, so did Clinton and Diana," she answered. "There was something odd about the signal disruption. At first they thought it might just not have been a clean cut but when they replayed it, Jones noticed a pattern." Another person Peter owned a thank you. The list was growing. "They had EMS meet them there," she continued. "The doctor said getting you immediate medical help made all the difference."

That and the fact that Neal hadn't done what Peter had told him to do.

"He's never gonna let me forget this."

"Probably not and Diana won't let either _one_ of you forget it." She smiled at his questioning look. "She said when they got there, you were leaning against Neal and he had his arm wrapped around you."

"He was trying to keep me from bleeding to death, El," Peter stated, wincing at the visualization of the scene in his mind.

"She said it was really sweet," Elizabeth continued, obviously enjoying his discomfort with the subject, "and if she hadn't been so scared, and you two hadn't been so bloody," her blue eyes twinkled "she'd have taken a picture."

"Blackmail is illegal."

"Oh, come on Peter," she needled in good humor. "The two of you might not always see eye to eye but you have a special bond. Everyone knows it."

"Yeah," he pushed back, "it's called _work release."_

"It's called _friendship."_ This time her tone held mild exacerbation. "You're both just too prideful and bullheaded to admit how much you mean to each other."

Her words stirred a thought, a memory. Had he told Neal he was the best friend he'd ever had or had he just _thought_ it?

Surely he hadn't said it. His eyes drifted once more to Neal's slumbering form. "It's complicated."

It was complicated now but it hadn't been yesterday. He'd have died to save Neal and he knew Neal would have done the same for him. And it wasn't paperwork that bound them; it was something much stronger. He knew it was there, he'd known for a while, and so did Neal. But just as Elizabeth had pointed out, neither one of them would acknowledge it. Peter didn't think it was all bull-headedness; at least not on _his_ part. Neal needed firm boundaries. He was a good person but sometimes, most of the time, he was his own worst enemy. If he perceived the least bit of flexibility, felt any give in the rules, he'd push right through and headlong into trouble; it was just who he was. It was up to Peter to keep that from happening.

"Why is it complicated?"

"I'm his handler," he pointed out. "it's my job to _manage_ him, to keep him out of trouble." He frowned, eyes still on Neal's still body. "That _makes_ it complicated."

"Seems to me there is a lot of common ground there," she observed. "Isn't that what friends do, too?" she pressed. "Keep each other out of trouble?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Peter conceded reluctantly, shifting his gaze back to El. With Neal that was a full-time job; he was glad he got paid for it. "But you know the Bureau discourages friendships with assets and for good reason. It's too easy for a personally invested agent to cross the line, to allow sentiment to influence good judgment." It had already happened on numerous occasions and Elizabeth's raised eyebrows told him she knew it. Still, he carried his point on to completion. "I just have to be careful, El. You know Neal. If I give him an inch, he'll take a mile."

"What?" she asked, searching his eyes intently. "You think if he knew how much you cared about him he'd suddenly _revolt?_ Runoff? Return to a life of crime?" The question must have been rhetorical because she didn't give him a chance to answer. "I think you've got it all wrong, Peter," she insisted with a slight shake of her head. "I think knowing you care about him is what _keeps_ him here."

Peter couldn't deny the truth of her words. He'd known all along a tracking device wasn't going to keep Neal Caffrey in place. He was smart, creative and had great ingenuity. If he wanted to run, he'd find a way to do it. Peter knew there was something else, something he hadn't understand at first, that tied Neal to New York and more importantly, to _him_.

Though it wasn't apparent by his life choices or his devil-may-care attitude, Peter had come to realize there was a part of Neal that needed stability in his life. When Peter had been chasing him, he'd thought the notes, cards and take out delivery had just been a cocky criminal taunting his pursuer but when the gestures, although limited by Neal's confined state, continued after the chase was over, Peter had been at a loss. It was Elizabeth who'd suggested Neal might not have been teasing him at all but instead may have been trying to connect with him in some way. It had made no sense to him at the time but now it did.

Neal had no home or family to anchor him; he lived a lonely, transitory life, full of fake names, fake friends and false impressions. The most consistent presence in his life was the Federal Agent who had pursued, arrested and then sent him to prison. Neal had wanted something real, something constant and sure, and for whatever reason, that was what Peter had represented to him. That was why Neal had reached out, laying the foundation for what they had now; a relationship so strong that each of them would die to protect the other.

Peter looked again at Neal, sleeping soundly a few feet away. He'd not been able to rest the night before, but he was making up for it now.

"It's not _complicated_ at all," Elizabeth continued gently at his silence.

"It's simple, really; the two of you have something special; if I didn't know it before, I know it now."

So did he. He might not remember a lot about the past twelve hours but he remembered enough. Elizabeth was right, he and Neal _did_ have a bond. If there had been a line he shouldn't have crossed with Neal, he'd crossed it a long time ago.

He frowned. The room was chilly and Neal, lying on top of the covers, was dressed only in a gown.

"You think he's cold?"

The slight tilt of Elizabeth's head and small smile told him she knew she'd made her point. Taking the blanket from the chair, she moved across the room and spread it over Neal. Though she took care not to disturb him, Peter saw Neal's body start, his eyes flying open in alarm.

"I'm sorry, Neal," Elizabeth said gently, placing her hand on his arm in an effort to calm him. "Everything's okay. We just thought you might be cold."

Disoriented and uncertain, Neal's eyes darted across the room and immediately fixed on Peter's. It didn't take words; it only took a nod of reassurance and Neal relaxed. A moment later, his eyes closed and he was asleep again.

Who was he kidding? Peter asked himself, watching as Elizabeth finished tucking the blanket around Neal's still form. What he and Neal had went beyond even friendship. It was more akin to brotherhood. Neal wasn't just a co-worker and he was definitely not just an asset.

For better or worse, he was _family._


	7. Chapter 7

_This is the final chapter of this story. Thanks to all for reading and for all who took the time to post a review._

 **Chapter Seven**

 _"He failed to spin the ball and let the laces out..." Neal opened his eyes; blue light flickered on the ceiling of the room. "..so the Sooners miss the opportunity to capitalize on the turnover." His eyes found the television mounted on the wall; a burgundy-clad team lined up against their orange and white adversaries. "Ohio State takes over at the 30-yard line with three sixteen left in the third quarter."_

Football.

He didn't know how long he'd been asleep, but it was long enough for the pain medication he'd taken at noon to be wearing off. His shoulder was throbbing; he imagined it had been pain and not the football game that had awakened him. The last thing he remembered was lying on the bed, listening to the doctor talk to Peter and Elizabeth. He didn't know how much time had passed; there was no sign of Elizabeth and the light outside the hospital window had waned into twilight. Peter was still there, awake and pale in the low light from the fluorescent strip above his bed. Leaning against several pillows, he was sipping from an oversized cup with an NYCH Logo; he looked much better than he had earlier. If one substituted a recliner for the hospital bed and a brew for the plastic cup, put Peter in sweats and gave his complexion a bit of color, it could be just another Saturday afternoon. Peter was a creature of habit; he found contentment in structure, so it wasn't surprising that, shot or not, he was keeping to his usual routine and watching College Football.

There was a time when Neal had seen structure as an impediment to circumvent and routine as a liability to be avoided but working with Peter had changed that to some degree. His life was now very structured, and since his routine, for the most part, aligned directly with Peter's, it was very predictable. But as much as it felt constrictive and confining, he'd come to realize there was a certain comfort to be found in a stable, predictable life. He wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing. Part of him, encouraged by dire warnings from Mozzie, felt it was a trap, something that was dulling his edges and making him soft. He'd survived in life by being observant and versatile and by trusting no one but himself. Even when a job had required him to work with others, he had been keenly aware that truth was fluid and honesty went only as far as it served a purpose. And it wasn't just criminals; Neal had lost count of the number of those who claimed to uphold the law but could be blackmailed, bought off or convinced to look the other way. Everyone had a price; you just had to find out what denomination of currency they required. It was just the way it was.

Or at least he'd thought that until he'd met Peter Burke.

When he'd realized the FBI agent on his trail was smart, intuitive and posed a real threat, he'd looked into his life to determine where his particular weaknesses lay. He'd checked the official profile as well as the more difficult to access Federal Bureau of Investigation Personnel File. It was extensive; Peter Burke was an excellent agent and had been involved in several high profile cases. There were no blemishes on his record, no hint of questionable behavior. Finding nothing there, Neal moved on to the personal aspects of his adversary's life. He'd checked his bank accounts, his credit cards and analyzed his spending habits. Again, there was nothing to suggest the man had any dirty secrets. He paid his taxes, lived within his means and had no unexplained, extra income nor any suspect expenditures. Neal even hit up his contacts on the street, people who'd crossed paths with Agent Burke in any capacity or knew people who had. Still, there was nothing to cast a disparaging light on the man's character. There were no gambling problems, no women on the side, no cash taken under the table or any instances of Quid pro quo. According to a vendor in Federal Plaza, Agent Burke wouldn't even take a free cup of coffee. From all appearances, Peter Burke was entirely above reproach. He was a good agent, a respected co-worker, an honest man, and a faithful husband.

Neal had been dumbfounded. He'd never encountered anyone like that in his life and his curiosity had gotten the better of him. Wanting to see this anomaly for himself, he'd tossed caution to the wind and, instead of putting distance between him and the agent pursuing him, had waited outside the bank, spoken with him and handed him a green sucker.

Engaging with the agent had been an impulsive, reckless thing to do. The last thing he'd needed to do was draw the man's attention but that's precisely what he'd done. And he hadn't stopped there; over the next several years, he'd continued to look for ways to interact with Agent Burke. He'd told himself it was just a game he was playing with a worthy adversary but on some level, he knew there was more to it than that. He wanted Peter's attention, wanted to be more than just another case file, another criminal. He wanted to stand out, to be unique. He wanted to impress the agent, to show him he was smart and daring, quick-witted and entertaining. He wanted Peter Burke to know him, not necessarily his name, but who he was.

More specifically, he wanted him to _like_ him. He didn't know why it was so important to him; like him or not, Peter Burke's sole purpose was to put him in prison. And three years later, he did just that. But four years after that, Peter accepted his offer to help him catch the Dutchmen and then arranged for him to work out the remainder of his sentence in his custody as a CI.

Why had he done that? Why had he taken such a risk?

Because, he'd said, he _liked_ him.

It had taken seven years but there it was; a word of affirmation from a man who's opinion meant more to him than it should. Neal remembered how he'd felt, how his heart had sped up and he'd been unable to keep from grinning. He'd had to remind himself that Peter might like him, or at least like the skills he brought to the table, but that was as far as it could ever go. Peter was FBI and he was a CI, a criminal on work release. That was a barrier that, no matter how much he wished otherwise, could never be breached.

But yesterday afternoon, as they sat huddled together in an abandoned house that reeked of death, it had been. Peter told him he was a good man and called him the best friend he'd ever had. Neal had felt that way about Peter for some time but never dreamed it would ever be reciprocated. The direness of the situation prompting the disclosure in no way made Neal doubt its veracity. When faced with the possibility that their partnership was coming to an abrupt end, he too had said things he would never have otherwise. He'd admitted, even to himself on some level, just how important Peter Burke was to him.

God, he thought, recalling those last few moments of consciousness, he hoped Peter didn't remember any of that. Having control over his physical being was bad enough but Peter knowing the emotional hold he had was something else altogether. The man already had too much power over him and he didn't need him to-

"Hey." He hadn't made a sound, hadn't moved a muscle, yet Peter had sensed his return to consciousness. "How are you feeling?"

I'm okay," Neal croaked, startled by the unexpected attention. Peter's ability to read him was nothing short of uncanny but, thank goodness, his skills didn't extend as far as mind reading. Even so, Neal could feel color flooding his cheeks and hoped the dimness of the room was somewhat concealing it. "How long have I-" He started to raise up but his breath caught as pain cut through his side.

"Okay, huh?" Peter's brows raised skeptically as Neal sank back to his original position.

"Well," Neal amended with reluctance. "Mostly okay." Wishing to spare his ribs further strain, he opted to allow mechanics to help him achieve a more dignified stature. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Just a couple hours," Peter replied, still eyeing him doubtfully. "But you were really out of it. Didn't even wake up when they came by to get my statement."

"Agents Ross and Barnwell," Neal supplied, having met them himself earlier in the day. "Inspection Division."

The two men had explained that any time an agent fired his weapon outside of training or was involved in an incident such as this, the FBI's Inspection Division had to compile a report reconstructing what happened. This was done by studying the scene, interviewing witnesses, and reading all medical, ballistics and autopsy reports related to the occurrence. Even though Neal had known he was a witness and not a suspect, his heart had still raced when the two men had flashed their badges. It was a force of habit, he guessed, a reflexive instinct of years spent on the wrong side of the law.

"Yeah, they told me they'd already talked to you."

"I got the impression it's just a formality." Now that pain in his side was less intense, Neal again was aware of the increasing pain in his shoulder. He shifted slightly, hoping to ease his discomfort. "It's not like anyone could dispute that you acted in self-defense."

"Well," Peter returned, "it's their job to investigate it all the same but I agree, its pretty straight-forward. Should wrap up fast without any issues."

"What translates as _fast_ in the FBI?" Bureaucracy moved at a snail's pace. Neal had found sometimes that worked to his advantage. Other times, not so much.

"Granted fast is a relative term," Peter admitted, "but in this case, I think by midweek at the latest. Not that it matters," he added. "I'll be on desk duty for the foreseeable future. We _both_ will."

Neal had taken pain medication at lunch so it had to be getting close to time for the next dose. Usually, he didn't like anything that dulled his senses but right now, it would be worth it as long as it dulled his pain as well. He could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

"Did you hear me?" Peter was staring at him.

"Yeah," Neal replied, having been momentarily distracted weighing the pros and cons of diminished capacities. "I heard you. Midweek."

"I said we were both going to be on _desk duty_ for the _foreseeable future."_

He could tell Peter had expected a protest but the odd combination of pain and gratitude had kept Neal from launching one. No one hated desk duty more than he did and he was sure after a few hours of copyright infringement and mortgage fraud he'd be climbing the walls. But right now a little boredom didn't seem like the worse thing that could happen.

Not in light of how close he'd actually came to the worse thing. Neal could still picture Peter, lifeless on the plastic covered floor with the medics frantically working on him. He'd thought he was dead, that help had come too late. What that would have done to Elizabeth, to him...

A lump rose in his throat and he felt an all too familiar tightness in his chest. It was the same feeling had driven him from his bed last night, culminating in him on the floor, hysterical and demanding to be taken to Peter. It hadn't been his finest moment, and it was just one more thing he hoped Peter never learned about.

Peter was watching him, waiting for his answer. Neal swallowed, trying to regain his rapidly slipping composure. If he was this weepy without opioids, maybe he'd better pass on pain medication. He was fairly certain his defenses couldn't withstand further downgrade.

"Well," he began, finding it difficult to keep his voice steady, "To be honest I'm just glad we're alive to be _put_ on desk duty."

Unable to hold Peter's gaze, Neal picked up his NYCH cup from the table near the bed, but the movement sent new ripples of pain through his torso. He stifled a grunt but couldn't keep his hand from trembling when, after taking a sip of water, he replaced the cup. It hurt, but the sharp sensation had an immediate, two-fold benefit. It jerked him from the edge of an emotional precip and provided something to which Peter could attribute his questionable behavior.

"You _hurting_?" Peter's brow furrowed in concern.

Neal didn't lie to Peter but he didn't always tell him the complete truth, either. He was good at deflecting, at employing a double entendre when possible and even at using a literal truth in place of giving a direct answer. It had worked better in the beginning; by now, experience had taught Peter to be more wary of his verbal acrobatics. Neal continually had to broaden his repertoire, to sharpen his skills, and step up his game. Of course, that was part of the fun of working with Peter.

The _challenge._

However, at present, Neal wasn't up to a challenge and had no reason to deny Peter's supposition. There was nothing at stake in admitting he was hurting; not even his pride. He and Peter were in the same boat, or more specifically, in the same hospital room. Both were injured, facing weeks of recovery and monotonous desk duty. It even looked like they were wearing color-coordinated hospital gowns.

"Let's just say I'll be glad when its time for a couple more of those pills they gave me at lunch." His attempt at levity fell short. The sharp pain of movement had lessened but the overall discomfort that had awakened him continued to grow in intensity.

"Buzz the Nurses' Station," Peter directed in his usual authoritative manner. "And tell them to bring you something for pain."

Watching football and bossing him around, Neal thought irritably. Peter had quickly fallen back into his usual routine.

"I'm not _doing_ that," Neal snapped. Admitting he was hurting was one thing but calling someone about it was another. "It's not that bad, really," he continued in a more conciliatory tone. "I can wait until somebody comes in." Peter didn't look convinced. " _Really._ I can wait." Hoping to move on, Neal nodded at the television. "Who's winning, anyway?"

He expected some push back but he didn't get it. Instead, after a moment of hesitation, Peter took the not so subtle cue and turned his attention back to the game.

"Ohio State right now," he answered, "but I wouldn't count out Oklahoma. They're a good team; they can find a way to win."

"Sounds like my kind of team." Neal didn't _have_ a team but if he did, he'd want it to fit that description.

 _They can find a way to win._

"My kind, too."

The respite from Peter's attention was short-lived because, after only a play or two, Neal again found himself the subject of Peter's focus.

"You know," Peter began a bit tentatively, "you don't have to tough it out on my account. You have nothing to prove. Especially not to _me_."

It was a nice thing for him to say and Neal could tell he meant it. At least, right _now._ But he was Neal Caffrey and Peter was Peter Burke and, in his mind, there would always be something he had to prove. To Peter, to the world, to _himself._

"I'm not _toughing it out_ ," he responded. "I'm _Cowboying up."_ Peter's wince told him he'd scored a hit with that remark. "But just until someone comes in," he added. "Then I'll ask them to bring me something."

"You promise?"

"What?" Neal laughed, "Are we in _kindergarten_? Want me to do a _pinkie swear?_ "

"Maybe," Peter returned in good humor, "if you consider that a _Binding Agreement_."

Neal waved his pinkie at Peter. "Air Swear," he quipped, "because I'm _not_ getting up."

"Perfect." Peter raised his own small digit and wiggled it. "Swear complete, agreement accepted."

He then picked his cup up and sipped through the straw. Then he took another, longer drink. Then, by the sound of it, he sucked up the remaining liquid on the third go.

"Looks like I need a refill," he announced. "Guess I'll have to _buzz the nurses' station,"_ he looked at Neal as he said it, a look of self-satisfaction on his face, "and get _someone to come in._ "

Neal looked at Peter in disbelief. "You've _got_ to be kidding me," he finally mumbled, realizing full well he'd been played. "You _conned_ me."

"Hey," Peter grinned, pressing the call button. "I learned from the best. Can you send someone in?" He responded at the prompt from the other end. "I need something to drink."

Five minutes later, Peter was sipping from his refilled cup and Neal was swallowing two Vicodin. Fifteen minutes after that, Peter was celebrating an Oklahoma win and Neal was celebrating sweet relief. Neal could feel the mind-numbing effect of the drug beginning to take hold. He wasn't hurting and Peter was going to be okay. They might be on desk duty for a while but the team of Caffrey and Burke would return.

And even if Peter didn't remember what he'd said the evening before, Neal would never forget it; Peter had called him a good man and the best friend he'd ever had. So for the moment, for this one brief moment in time, Neal felt complete contentment.

"Thank you." He was thinking it but didn't mean to say it.

"What for?" Peter asked, dialing down the volume of the post-game excitement on the television.

"Getting that refill." He was thankful for the pain medicine but there was a lot more he was thankful to Peter for. "And for looking after me," he added without thinking.

He regretted the words the minute they left his lips. _Diminished capacities._

"You're welcome." Was Peter's sober, solemn reply. "I owe you a thanks, too, Neal."

"For what?" Neal asked, surprised Peter had let the slip pass without comment.

"For getting me back to Elizabeth." Peter's voice nearly broke as he spoke the name. "If you hadn't stayed with me..." He shook his head slowly as if at a loss. "I wouldn't have made it, Neal. You saved my life."

The sincerity of his proclamation and the emotion in Peter's voice caused a lump to rise in Neal's throat. He swallowed hard before responding.

"That's what friends do." His voice was strained but he held Peter's gaze. They _were_ friends; Peter had said so himself. "But if you hadn't taken on Reich, neither one of us would have made it. So, _technically,"_ he added, "you saved my life first."

Peter regarded him thoughtfully. "Then let's just say it was a team effort."

"I like that," Neal replied. " _Team Effort._ A team that _always_ finds a way to win."

That was he and Peter in a nutshell; a fantastic team that could find a way to win even in the direst of situations. Not just in the world of kidnappers bent on revenge but personally as well. They were an unusual pair, as different as night and day and yet they complemented each other like Yin and Yang.

"My kind of team," Peter stated, echoing Neal's earlier comment.

"My kind, too, _"_ Neal returned, closing his eyes. The hospital bed had suddenly become extremely comfortable. _"_ Me and you; Caffrey and Burke."

They'd started out as adversaries but somehow, miraculously, they'd ended up as _teammates_. Peter might be his FBI handler, but he was also his friend and right now, as they shared this moment of camaraderie, he felt like a brother, or at least what Neal imagined a having a brother would feel like.

"Burke and _Caffrey._ "

An older, know-it-all brother who was constantly telling him what to do and insisted on having things his way.

"Age before beauty, then."

Peter chuckled. "Go to sleep, pretty boy."

 _The End_

 _At the Howser Clinic, Peter was given a rare glimpse of Neal without his filter and learned that he was the only person in his life Neal trusted. That proclamation of trust meant a lot to Peter but he never brought it up or reminded Neal that he'd said it. It gave Peter a confidence in their relationship that I felt Neal didn't get in the original series. The idea of this short story was to give Neal a similar moment. Hope you enjoyed it._


End file.
